


Now I Stand Here Waiting

by Sasha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Frottage, Greg Has Strong FeelingsTM, Injured Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft And SentimentsTM, Porn with Feelings, Sherlock Secret Santa, Sherlock is being a protective prick, Soft Porn, blowjob, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasha/pseuds/Sasha
Summary: The call had came in the middle of the afternoon. He had left the Yard without a second thought, paperwork abandoned on his desk, his favorite chipped mug, still steaming with his watery coffee.Mycroft had been gone for less than forty-eight hours and wasn’t due back until Sunday morning. It was supposed to be a diplomatic trip, nothing to worry about and absolutely not life-threatening.Or that was what Greg had thought.





	Now I Stand Here Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mitarashi8](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mitarashi8).



> Written for @mitarashi8 as a Sherlock Secret Santa gift, I was very happy to participate and hope you’ll enjoy this little mystrade story :)
> 
> I am forever grateful to the absolute awesome @the_hopeless_existentialist, who accepted to beta this and helped me so much with it <3
> 
> This is my very first fanfiction in Sherlock's fandom, and I hope it won’t be the last!

The usually pale skin of his cheeks seemed almost cadaveric, even against  the dull white of the hospital sheets, his thin bright red hair, a stark contrast where it spread out on the pillow. Greg let out a shaky breath. His warm and clammy hand grasped Mycroft’s limp cold fingers with far too much force.

 

The call had came in the middle of the afternoon. He had left the Yard without a second thought, paperwork abandoned on his desk, his favorite chipped mug, still steaming with his watery  coffee.

 

He hadn’t been worried. Mycroft had been gone for less than forty-eight hours and wasn’t due back until Sunday morning. They had planned some brunch and maybe a stroll in Regent’s Park (Mycroft’s idea), but more likely a slow shag and a nap (Greg’s wishful thinking). It was supposed to be a diplomatic trip, nothing to worry about and absolutely  _ not  _ life-threatening. Or that was what Greg had thought. Then he had got the call from Anthea. Her usual clipped voice was laced with anxiety, letting him know that his lover was in intensive care and that Greg needed to be there. She did not ask him, she commanded him to come.

He spent hours in a hallway, hands cradling various paper cups, his coat rumpled in the empty plastic seat next to him. Anthea would come by for a couple minutes every few hours, not really saying anything, handing him another tea or coffee while furiously typing on her phone.

 

The doctors wouldn’t let him know anything - “family only” - and Greg was too afraid, too frozen by panic, to argue that he  _ was _ family. Maybe not on paper, but he was the one sharing Mycroft’s late nights and too early breakfasts, his short car-rides to work, that would conveniently pass by Scotland Yard, his once-in-a-blue-moon days-off and the quiet afternoons spent on his comfortable sofa, one freckled hand typing on his computer and the other buried in Greg’s soft hair.

 

They did talk to Anthea though, and eventually they allowed Greg to enter Mycroft’s room. There had been at least one bullet, of that the Detective Inspector was sure, but he did not know much more. Mycroft was still fast asleep, and would probably not wake up anytime soon. 

 

The tight skin around his eyes seemed nearly translucent, his pale ginger eyelashes almost non-existent . Greg felt like screaming and he buried his face in the neat sheets, cheek pressed against Mycroft cold wrist, the slow steady flutter of his pulse offering little comfort.

 

The door opened suddenly, banging against the wall. Greg jumped out of his skin, flying to his feet and standing wide-eyed, near Mycroft’s still unmoving body. He did not let go of his hand.

Sherlock stormed in, all flying coat and furious eyes. He took one long look at Greg, before grasping the door and staring at the wall.

 

“Out” he hissed between gritted teeth.

 

“Excuse-me?”

 

Iced, pale eyes bore into him and Greg suddenly felt small and insignificant.

 

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

 

Something cold and ugly settled in Greg’s throat, he rose his chin and widened his stance.

 

“No.”

 

Sherlock was on him in an instant, curls wild around his tight face, cheekbones standing out like razor blades, his teeth ground together.

 

“You have nothing to do here. Go away.”

 

“I have every right…” Greg stuttered, fury and outrage making his blood run so fast to his head he felt dizzy.

 

“He does not need his  _ fucktoy _ moaning around.” Sherlock spat with all the contempt he could muster, “Get. Out.”

 

Greg could not move, his body frozen in  shock. He didn’t realise what was happening until Sherlock had already dragged him forcefully across the room.

 

“Wait… stop…!”

 

His biceps hurt where Sherlock was gripping him way too hard. He stumbled into the hallway and the door was slammed in his face. His first instinct was to re-open it straight  away and force himself back into the room, but when he pressed against the door he heard a plaintive voice inside.

 

“My… don’t you dare leave, My…”

 

His insides clenched and Sherlock’s words came back to him.

 

_ fucktoy _

 

Greg remembered suddenly, with the painful acuity brought on by anxiety and panic, how Mycroft sometimes would turn from him after sex. How his shoulder blades looked sharp and tense with his back to him. How he wouldn’t move, even with Greg’s tentative hand pressed against the knobs of his spine.

 

_ moaning around _

 

Shame flushed his cheeks and twisted his stomach. He made it just in time to the loo at the end of the corridor. His chest heaved painfully, knees sliding on the cold tiles and throat burning with bile.

 

In the stained mirror above the sink, his face looked pale and tired, with his bloodshot eyes and messy hair. The cold water did not help with the tremors running up his hands, but it did made the taste in his mouth more tolerable.   
He chewed on a mint, right palm pressed firmly on his left pectoral. Against his ribs, his fluttering heart hadn’t yet decided to calm down.

 

When Greg made it back to the still-closed door of Mycroft’s room, Anthea was sat on the plastic seats, his coat now neatly folded next to her.

 

“He woke up.” Her voice was soft and she didn’t raise her eyes from her phone. He could see them slightly puffy and red-rimmed under her perfect fringe.

 

Greg felt his right hand spasm. He grabbed his coat and made to turn around towards the exit.

 

“What are you doing?” She had lifted her face at last. She had removed her makeup, her pale lips and ringed eyes made her look so much younger.

 

Before Greg could say anything she tugged his coat out of his hands, eyes fierce and jawline sharp.

 

“Don’t be stupid.” she said, nodding towards the door. Her voice had found its way back to her usual clipped tone. She rumpled his coat under her elbow and brought her attention back to her mobile.

 

Greg still hesitated for a second, his hand on the door-handle, his heart still hammering against his ribs. When he pushed the door open Sherlock’s raised voice was ringing in the room.

 

“Do not lie to me!”

 

“I am not, Sherlock…”

 

The relief of hearing Mycroft’s voice washed over Greg violently, and he felt weak in the knees when he saw Mycroft’s eyes - tired, dark shadows around them - jump to him.

Before either of them could say anything, Sherlock was snarling at Greg, face twisted with hurt and anger.

 

“What are you doing here? I told you-”

 

“Sherlock!” interrupted Mycroft, without moving his eyes from Greg’s. 

 

_ Fuck it _ , thought Greg and walked decisively to the bed. He glared at Sherlock, chin jutted up, daring him to man-handle him out again. Mycroft let out a small surprised sound as Greg bent to kiss him softly on the mouth, then he reached up and gripped at his shirt.

The door closed behind them, and Greg let his forehead gently rest against Mycroft’s.

  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  


“What did he say?”

 

“Who?”

 

Greg was distractedly chopping mushrooms, one eye on the knife, the other on the tablet propped up on the kitchen counter. A soundless video, displaying perfectly manicured hands cooking some elaborate dish, was on.

 

“My dear brother.”

 

Mycroft was elegantly sprawled on the sofa, computer on his knees and cushions behind his back. He shifted and winced slightly when the movement pulled on his stitches. He would be able to go back to work as usual in a couple of days, and apart from the occasional itch he felt good. Greg was, of course, still fussing about him. He had been unusually distant and quiet since Mycroft woke up in the hospital.

 

“What about him?”

 

Greg had tensed at the mention of the younger brother. It was quite obvious that a discussion had happened while Mycroft was still unconscious, but he couldn’t fathom what Sherlock had said that would have made such an impact.

 

“You know how I dislike repeating myself, Gregory.”

 

The detective sighed and turned to wash his hands.

 

“Nothing important.”

 

“Of course it was important, or you wouldn’t be tip-toeing around me like some shy school-boy.”

 

He finished the sentence with a small smile, making sure Greg could hear it in his voice. It didn’t have the expected effect, Greg’s shoulders tensed even more if that was possible, the veins on his forearms popping out and his fingers clenched on the sink.

 

“He said I was your fucktoy.”

 

Greg did not move. He listened to Mycroft get up and move closer to him, with his eyes closed and his throat feeling tight. A light hand landed on his shoulder and found its way to the nape of his neck, short and perfectly trimmed nails scraping gently at his scalp.

 

“Sherlock’s an idiot.”

 

Mycroft voice was soft, softer than Greg had ever heard before. He opened his eyes and turned his head to stare squarely into other man’s.

 

“Sherlock’s everything but an idiot.”

 

Mycroft blinked and something vulnerable and fragile appeared on his face. It was in the almost invisible way his eyebrows scrunched up, the corner of his mouth going soft, the slight flutter of his eyelids.

 

“Sherlock’s an idiot when it comes to… sentiment.”

 

Greg’s eyes jumped between Mycroft’s . Right, left, right, left, right, left. He must have found what he was looking for, because a small and secretive smile pulled his mouth upwards.

When Mycroft kissed him, Greg laughed joyfully into his mouth, his still wet hands grasping  carefully at his lover’s ribs.

  
  
  


 

 

Mycroft’s injuries did not allow sex to be as diverse and varied as they were used to. They had to make do with Mycroft staying on his back and with minimum movement, so his stitches wouldn’t suffer from too much strain. It had led to a couple weeks of slow, lazy handjobs, and torturous, frustratingly soft, blowjobs. Greg absolutely loved it, and was currently enjoying himself greatly, spread on his stomach between Mycroft’s pale thighs.

 

His cock wasn’t completely hard yet, the tip just beginning to show, glistening under the foreskin. Greg nuzzled at the coarse light hairs covering Mycroft’s groin before licking his way gently up his quickly hardening length. Long fingers dug in the back of his neck, a soft sound from above letting him know that his lover was getting impatient.

With a little smile, Greg flicked a look up towards Mycroft’s pink face, his tongue sliding back and forth against the frenulum.

 

“Gregory…”

 

He hummed under his breath and circled the root of his cock  with a loose fist, tongue softening further,  as he licked under Mycroft’s foreskin. The hips under his head stuttered suddenly, his lover’s body arching and twisting in the sheets. Greg backed off a little, stroking soothingly at Mycroft’s thighs and pressing gentle little kisses to his hips.

 

“Shh shh… you’re gonna hurt yourself love…”

 

Mycroft had pushed his head back into the pillows, all Greg could see was his clenched jaw and jutting out collarbone. Tremors were travelling his bent legs, his toes digging into the sheets. Crawling up the bed, Greg picked up Mycroft’s long legs, his callous palms running up smooth skin. He settled the trembling thighs against his shoulders and pushed gently up on his knees.

The new position allowed him to take most of Mycroft’s weight on his shoulders, and prevented any tension on the stitches. Mycroft couldn’t do much more than small aborted thrusts with his hips, his heels useless against Greg’s back and his arse resting in the detective’s large hands.

 

Eyes screwed shut, Mycroft refused to look at Greg’s face or his own body, teeth digging hard in his lower-lip so as not to whimper wantonly. Greg took his cock back in his mouth, tongue pushing at the underside and cheeks hollowing while he sucked him thoroughly. Mycroft couldn’t help the frustrating little thrusts he could manage, the heat and softness around his cock making him pant through his teeth.

 

Greg’s thumbs pushed gently were his arse met his thighs, spreading him slightly more, and suddenly Mycroft had even less leverage. All he could do was writhe in half circles against Greg’s face.

A sob escaped him and suddenly he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Whimpers and groans filled the room.

 

Greg took him down entirely, nose buried in the hairs at the root, and kept him there. Slowly breathing through his nose he began swallowing around Mycroft’s cock, not sucking or tonguing anymore. His length was engulfed in the hot softness of Greg’s mouth, the only real pressure coming and going around his leaking head as Greg worked his throat around him. Saliva dribbled down his tight balls, between his arse cheeks, making everything wet and slippery.

 

“I can’t…” mumbled Mycroft, trying desperately to find more friction, fingers buried deep in Greg’s hair, nails scratching his scalp “... Gregory... please…”

 

One of Greg’s thumbs slipped, almost as if by accident, and began stroking firmly under Mycroft’s sack, pushing and pressing at his perineum. His head moved again, sliding up and down, throat still swallowing tightly against his leaking head.

Mycroft became suddenly very silent, his whole body vibrating with tension. His hips jerked wildly against Greg’s hands, against his face, down his mouth. And suddenly Mycroft was moaning, loudly and shamelessly, cock jerking and spilling come against Greg’s soft inner cheeks.

 

Greg kept mouthing him, swallowing and licking, until Mycroft pushed at his face with a small sob in his throat. The detective let the pale legs slide gently back on the bed, keeping them bent on either sides of his own hips.

He scooted closer, pushing his hard and leaking cock against the mess of come and saliva covering Mycroft’s crotch. Holding himself up with his hands on Mycroft’s knees, he began rolling his hips, pushing his cock against his lover’s softening one, in the soft crease between his thigh and groin, under his sensitive balls, between sloppy arse cheeks.

 

Mycroft watched, under heavy eyelids, how Greg’s body undulated against him, muscles rippling under his skin, shadows dancing between his hip bones with every movement.

He extended a lazy hand down, pressing at Greg’s leaking tip with one thumb, flicking his own nipple with the other. Greg came on his stomach with a hoarse groan, eyes burning through him, mouth open and soft, lips still wet and swollen from sucking Mycroft’s cock.

  
  
  


 

Later, when Greg had wiped the come and saliva away and they were both clean and warm against each other, Mycroft tugged a little at his lover’s hair.

 

“He didn’t mean what he said. Not really.”

 

Greg did not answer right away, enjoying the quiet and the way Mycroft’s, still bandaged, torso rose and fell under his palm.

 

“He was worried about you.”

 

“I know.”

 

“He called you ‘My’...”

 

A soft smile appeared on Mycroft face.

 

“He used to call me that when he was little.”

 

Greg turned so he could bury his face in his lover’s neck. He mouthed words against his skin, he couldn’t say them out loud yet.

Mycroft buried his own face against the grey and silver hair and mouthed the same words in return.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Blue Monday by New Order.
> 
> Come and find me on tumblr <3 thefrenchweirdone.tumblr.com


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